


Free Lords of the Free, The

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 3rd Age - The Stewards, Canon - Engaging gap-filler, Canon - Outstanding AU/reinterpretation, Characters - Well-handled romance/eroticism, Homoerotic content aka slash. Sibcest angst. Bloodthirsty Elves. A blend of book and movie verse., Other - Freeform, Writing - Every word counts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-16
Updated: 2003-12-05
Packaged: 2018-03-23 07:22:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3759485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After traveling through the Angle, Boromir arrives in Rivendell and meets Aragorn, Legolas . . . and the Ring.</p><p>Warnings: Homoerotic content aka slash. Sibcest angst. Bloodthirsty Elves. A blend of book and movie verse.</p><p>Follows:<br/>Shining One, <br/>Riderless, <br/>Roads Forgotten</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_Why should we not think that the Great Ring has come into our hands to serve us in the very hour of need? Wielding it the Free Lords of the Free may surely defeat the Enemy. That is what he most fears, I deem.”_  
Boromir, FotR, Book II, Ch 2, _The Council of Elrond_

**October 25, 3018**

For the first time since he had left Minas Tirith, Boromir considered that he had erred in taking the journey to Rivendell upon himself. Faramir had been eager to go, arguing convincingly that he was the proper choice, for it was Faramir’s dream that had alerted them to the danger of Isildur’s Bane. And Faramir was, comparatively, expendable: he was not Gondor’s Captain-General, and he was not the Steward’s heir. But Boromir had overridden him.

In Elrond’s Chamber in Rivendell, Boromir understood at last how much joy he had stolen from Faramir. His brother would have been elated to have come here, Boromir thought, looking about the room. Every corner held another treasure: tools to observe the stars, a rare book, or a window that offered a dazzling view of the valley.

His attention was caught by a mural of the Last Alliance when he felt eyes on him. He turned to see a man, an open book in his hand, regarding him with grave interest. The man was young, his own age, so Boromir at first discounted him. Then his interest quickened, for the man was dressed in the clothing of the Elves, and yet not so. The cut of it was less flowing, and the robe shorter, showing the man’s leggings and boots; even so, the garment was undoubtedly of Elven make.

The boots the man wore had been made by the same hands as those worn by Halbarad and the other rangers in the Angle, reminding Boromir of his suspicion: there was a hidden accord between the Elves and the Rangers of the North. This man, arrayed in robes like to those worn by the Elves of Rivendell, sharpened his distrust.

The man gave an odd account of himself to Boromir. A friend of Gandalf? That was no way for a man to introduce himself. Boromir presumed he was a member of Elrond’s household, as odd as that seemed for a Man. Or was he a ranger? Or both?

The blue-grey eyes were still examining him, making him uneasy. He moved to the shrine that held the remains of Narsil. As he picked up the sword hilt, he had the unpleasant sensation of another mind touching his, as had happened with the Elves he had met in the Angle. He jerked and cut his finger on the shattered blade. Reluctantly, he turned to look at the man again. It was unmistakable; the man was trying to enter his mind. His gaze was piercing, brushing past Boromir’s weak defenses . . .

Boromir left hastily. When he had arrived in Rivendell early that morning, Lindir, a member of Elrond’s household, had suggested he explore the grounds while a lodging was readied for him. There Boromir would be able to hastily wash and eat before the council. He stuck his bleeding finger in his mouth and looked for Lindir.

***

Once in his room, Boromir washed his hands and face; there was no time for a thorough bath. Lindir brought him food, which he ate at a table by the window. He stared unseeing into the distance as he chewed, preoccupied with whom he might encounter in Rivendell:  
Aragorn, the Chieftain of the Dunedain, of whom he had learned so little, although he had been among the rangers for weeks in the Angle. And the Elf twins Elladan and Elrohir. In the Angle, he had parted on bad terms with Elladan; he owed the Elf an apology. Elrohir had accepted his apology already, although Boromir would not call his relations with the Elf tranquil . . .

A bell signaled the start of the council.

***

Boromir was surprised at the large number of folk at the council, as no formal call had gone out. All of the speaking races were represented: Elves, Men, Dwarves, and a curious folk called the Halflings. At the sight of the little people, he was filled with wonder, for it was the first confirmation that Faramir’s dream, which mentioned the Halflings, was not merely a result of his brother’s sometimes excitable imagination.

He was relieved to see that the twins were not present. Unfortunately, looking like a prince of men, the ranger responsible for the cut on his finger was there. His glance at Boromir was neutral, as if they had never met. The other men at the council were Bardings and Beornings from east of the Misty Mountain.

He was grateful for his time in the Angle with the Dunedain, for there he had met both Dwarves and Elves, so he could look upon them without gawking. The Elves to his right were the ethereal golden creatures he had always imagined Elves to be, unlike Elladan and Elrohir, who were dark-haired and powerfully built.

When Elrond joined the council, Boromir’s heart skipped a beat. Elladan and Elrohir were so like to the Elven Lord that they must be close kin. As Elrond spoke and gestured, he could see the similarities, even in the manner Elrond used his hands. After the council, he would have to find the twins quickly, for things could go ill with him, if he had offended Elrond’s kin.

In spite of the distractions, he listened attentively as the council members described their part in the events concerning the ring. He was stunned to learn that the Nazgul had been so near, on the East Road; at last he knew why Halbarad had not taken him that way. His gaze went to the Halfling, Frodo, and he marveled that one who had been attacked by the Nazgul could look so unscathed. A fierce protectiveness rose in him; the Enemy would never harm any of the Halflings, not if he were there to prevent it.

At last, Elrond bade Frodo to bring forth the ring. The Halfling laid it on the pedestal in the center of the council and returned to his chair.

“So it is true,” Boromir said, shocked into speaking: the Great Ring that held the bulk of Sauron’s strength had been found.

Looking at the plain gold band, Boromir knew as keenly as a knife piercing his heart that the peril threatening Gondor was before him, embodied. The ring represented their destruction -- and their salvation.

Joy leapt in him; he would answer his father’s plea to bring the ring to Gondor, after all. He would put it into his father’s hand -- no, better: hand it to Faramir to give to their father, for it was Faramir’s dream which had enabled him to come to Rivendell in time. For Boromir had arrived in the nick of time, and he wondered again how much Halbarad knew, for the Ranger had delivered him to Rivendell the very morning of the council.

Yes, that was what he must do. Faramir would lay the perfect shining orb in the hand of their father. Denethor would look up at Faramir and smile, acknowledging the great service his youngest son had done for him, and for all of Gondor, delivering to them a mighty weapon to be used against the Enemy. And greater things would come, for the Men of Gondor -- nay, all men -- would answer Boromir’s call. Faramir and Eomer would be at his side when he stormed the Dark Tower with an army of lovers . . .

Abruptly, Boromir found the eyes of the entire Council on him, for he had risen from his seat and taken several steps towards the pedestal on which the ring rested.

***

The council over, Boromir returned to his room, shunning company. He had been crushed by the council’s decision to destroy the ring, and struck dumb by the revelation that the ranger he had met earlier was Aragorn, the Chieftain of the Dunedain -- and, most shocking of all, Isildur’s heir.

He had tried to sway the council to his view, that the Free Lords of the Free should wield the ring to defeat Sauron, but his suggestion had been soundly rejected.

When he returned to his room after taking a thorough bath, he found his travel-stained clothing gone, even his boots. In their place were clean robes, similar to those worn by Aragorn. With alarm, he eyed the skimpy sandals provided. He had a choice of wearing the clothing or going bare, for he had gone to his bath dressed only in a thin robe provided by Lindir.

While the new garment covered him completely, hanging nearly to the floor, he was self-conscious due to the thinness of the fabric; the dark red velvet clung to his body when he moved. He had finished dressing when Lindir knocked on the door. With sarcasm the Elf ignored, Boromir thanked Lindir for having someone see to his clothes.

Lindir merely smiled and suggested that Boromir come to the Hall of Fire that evening, if he wished for company.

***

Boromir did not outright reject Lindir’s invitation, but he had an urgent need for rest. He lay down on the bed, closing his eyes, yet remaining awake. He was too preoccupied for sleep.

The shocks he had had that day would have unmanned a lesser man, he thought. He reviewed all that he had learned at the council: the twins, Elladan and Elrohir, were Elven lords, the sons of Elrond; Isildur’s heir lived, which was the matter at the bottom of the conspiracy between the Rangers and the Elves; the One Ring had been found; the One Ring would be destroyed . . .

There was a single comfort: he would have companions on the long road home. And he would have rest; the Fellowship would not leave immediately. Elladan and Elrohir were away, and they would not stir from Rivendell until the twins returned.

In spite of his worries, peace crept over him, and he slept for an hour, waking shortly after sundown.

***

He rose from bed and stepped out onto the balcony outside his room to find that it was a veranda, circling the building completely. He walked along it slowly, enjoying the moonlit view, his robe slithering strangely against his legs. Not since he had left Minas Tirith had he had such a feeling of safety. Tension left his body with each breath he took.

He smiled spontaneously and picked up his pace when he heard the piping voices of the Halflings. He could not help liking them. A simple folk, but of great worth.

Light spilled out of a window onto the veranda, marking the Halflings’ rooms. He halted before reaching it when he heard someone say his name. It was Aragorn, speaking of him and of their errand south.

“He is a valiant man.” He heard Aragorn’s words describing him as clearly as if the ranger had been standing next to him.

He turned and retraced his steps to avoid intruding into an intimate conversation among friends: Aragorn had traveled far with the Halflings, through great danger. They would have formed a bond that excluded Boromir.

In his room, he allowed the grin growing on his face to take possession of it. He had been wrong about Aragorn, for he had thought the ranger was averse to him, or at best neutral. Some of his bitterness following the council slipped away. He pictured Aragorn’s blue-grey eyes on him, and the soft lips saying, “You are a valiant man.”

As they had traveled together to Rivendell from the Angle, Halbarad had told Boromir that he desired his Chieftain. Halbarad’s longing had struck Boromir as grotesque, for he had pictured the Chieftain of the Rangers to be old and grim; from Halbarad's tales, Aragorn should have been ancient!

Half an hour later, he went to the Hall of Fire. He cut a different figure from the man the Elves had seen at the council, when the dust of the road still clung to him. He kept his face impassive as the indifferent Elves, male and female alike, became for a moment keen with interest, their swift glances heating him.

Boromir was not given to considering his appearance, for he never had the time, although his beard was cropped short and well shaped, as that made it easier to care for. He wore his hair shorn about his shoulders, not long as many men did. He had noticed approvingly that Aragorn wore his hair in the same manner.

But not the Elves! He had never seen such an abundance of silky hair in his life, not even on the noble women of Minas Tirith. The Elves, he thought, were vain creatures, although he had to admit the effect was stunning. He recalled the heavy weight of Elrohir’s dark chestnut hair, which shimmered with red and gold in the light.

As he walked through the dim room, lit only by fire, he grew drowsy. He saw the Halfling Sam lying near his master, Frodo. Sam was sleeping with a smile on his face. Peace stole over Boromir again, in spite of the setbacks of the day. He had an unshakeable conviction that all would turn out right. He sat and listened to the music for a while, but sleep was overcoming him. And, unlike Sam, no one would carry him to bed!

He got up as if in a dream and went outside, following the veranda to his room. When he found Aragorn at the halfway point, it did not surprise him, somehow. He was too sleepy to marvel at how swiftly his earlier untrusting mood had changed. He felt as if he had known Aragorn for years.

“The Elves have stolen my clothes,” Boromir said with a sleepy grin. “I was too filthy to be their guest.”

Aragorn smiled. “It looks better on you than on me.”

Boromir laughed with embarrassment, realizing he was wearing Aragorn’s clothing, although perhaps he should have expected it. Aragorn was only an inch taller than he, and the ranger’s build was scarcely slighter. He was suddenly serious as a thought struck him.

“Aragorn, I must ask for a favor. Would you be kind enough to let me know when Elrond’s sons return to the valley? I have urgent business with them.”

Aragorn’s surprise was sharp. “You know them? They left on their journey last night, before you arrived.”

“I met them in the Angle, during my journey here.” Boromir explained. The Angle was the name the rangers gave to the land bordered by the rivers Hoarwell and the Loudwater, and the Great East Road. It was there that most of the remaining northern descendents of Numenor dwelt. He watched Aragorn’s expression shift from surprise to stillness.

“You journeyed through the Angle on your way here,” Aragorn echoed unnecessarily. “How long were you there?”

“Including the time I was on the road here, nearly two months. I stayed with a kinswoman of Halbarad, waiting for a guide to lead me here.”

Aragorn’s stillness was absolute. His intent gaze was on Boromir’s face, and Boromir felt hypnotized, like a cat, watching him. Boromir could not bear the strained silence and spoke. “I met Elladan and Elrohir there, at a tavern.”

“I met with the Dunedain, today, here in Rivendell. They spoke to me of a stranger in the Angle. And I had tidings of your approach from Elladan and Elrohir last night. I did not realize the Dunedain and the sons of Elrond were speaking of the same man.” Aragorn’s mouth curved into a smile.

Boromir blushed. He had become the object of ribald speculation among the rangers, for, while in a village in the Angle, he had been convinced by Halbarad’s kinswoman Lalaith to give her a child. With so many men fallen in battle, and with their people dwindling, the Rangers clung less fiercely to the sanctity of marriage. Any child was welcome, particularly from a man such as Boromir who was of the same Numenorean lineage.

Boromir had learned from Halbarad, before the ranger had parted with him at the border of Rivendell, that Halbarad had intentionally placed him in Lalaith’s home for that purpose. Halbarad had dozens of kinswomen in the village with whom Boromir could have stayed; Lalaith was the only one of childbearing age who was still without issue. Whether a child would be born of the liaison was unknown as of yet. Boromir had accepted that he might not ever know.

What Aragorn did not know, thank the Valar, was that Boromir had also lain with Lalaith’s brother, Hallas, with her connivance. The brother and sister had been enthusiastically noisy, and the village had concluded he was a lover of remarkable prowess.

Boromir’s face heated as Aragorn regarded him; the glances of the Elves that night had told him he was a striking figure in his borrowed clothing, and he could see acknowledgement of it in the warm admiration in the blue-grey eyes. Aragorn abruptly lifted his hands to Boromir’s shoulders, but he did nothing more than straighten the robe so it hung properly. The smile was still on Aragorn’s lips.

Boromir thought again of Halbarad’s longing for Aragorn. Now he understood what Halbarad wanted, for he wanted the same. His eyes half closed as he imagined taking Aragorn’s lips in a kiss -- a hard kiss, for, like Halbarad, his desire for Aragorn was rooted in an urge to master and possess. Aragorn had a self possession that begged to be ruffled . . .

Aragorn took his arm, and they walked together to Boromir’s room. Aragorn halted on the veranda outside his door.

“You will sleep well tonight, Boromir,” Aragorn said softly. ‘No evil comes to this valley. You need not fear dark dreams in Rivendell.”

Tardily, Boromir discerned what the ranger’s smile reminded him of: his grandfather. Aragorn looked at him the same way, with tender fondness. There was no lust in him; there never had been.

Boromir closed his eyes. His disappointment was keen for a moment, but he opened his eyes again, for he craved the way Aragorn looked at him, regardless, as if Aragorn knew him better than he knew himself. The antagonism between them at the council had miraculously faded. A memory stirred in him, of a friend of his grandfather, who had treated him with amused consideration when he was quite young.

“Sleep well, Boromir,” Aragorn said. He clasped Boromir’s hand briefly, then walked away. Boromir climbed into bed and slept dreamlessly.

***

November 9, 3018 T.A.

Boromir wandered restlessly outside the fair house of Elrond. Two weeks had passed since the council, yet they would not leave for at least another month, waiting for scouts, as well as Elrond’s sons, to return. He had already explored the valley and was running out of ways to occupy himself.

He walked along a path by the river, paying little attention to where he was going. Then he saw him: long light hair, a bow slung over his shoulder, green and brown clothing covering long muscular legs. The man turned and it was Legolas, the Elven prince from Mirkwood. Boromir’s expression swiftly shifted from longing to disappointment. The Elf regarded him impassively, then walked on.

It was the first time Boromir had seen Legolas in his traveling clothes; the Mirkwood Elf’s attire was similar to the uniform worn by the Ithilien Rangers. For a moment, Boromir had thought the Elf was Faramir. Fortunately, the Elf did not seem to have been offended by his leer.

That evening, when he saw Legolas at the Hall of Fire, he purposefully greeted the Elf in an ingratiating manner. Legolas spoke to him politely. Boromir breathed a sigh of relief, for it seemed Legolas had forgiven, or had not noticed, his transgression. The Elf’s next words proved it further:

“Boromir, time must be heavy on your hands. Come with me tomorrow morning and I shall show you the beauties of the valley that you may have overlooked. I will ask the Halflings to accompany us as well, for I would be glad to know them better before we depart.”

Boromir assented quickly.

***

The two youngest Halflings raced ahead, making Boromir and Legolas smile. Legolas led them to a small dell with a waterfall and a pool. They did not go into the water, for winter was coming and the air was chill. But it was pleasant to sit alongside it and eat their lunch, picnicking on the still-green grass.

Legolas stretched out on the ground and looked up into the tree branches that mingled overhead. He smiled.

“What do you see?” Boromir asked, unusually curious. Legolas’s smile was a mystery to him.

“I see trees,” Legolas said, laughing.

“Nay, _I_ see trees.”

Legolas laughed again, and thought for a moment. “I see the Belain. The Great Ones. And all the trees that once were, who still are, their decay feeding the growth of the leaves above us.”

Boromir was silent for a time. “Aye, I thought it might be something like that.” He lay back on the grass and looked up. He saw only trees. Beautiful trees, but trees. He did not have the sight of the Eldar, yet he could think of a time when he had been outside himself, and fully of the world. “To truly see, or feel, what is outside ourselves . . . we Men do not except in the arms of a lover.” His thoughts returned to a dark night in Henneth Annun six months earlier.

Boromir opened his eyes and was surprised to find Legolas looking at him intently.

“Boromir, what do you see when you look at _me_?” Legolas asked. His expression was guarded.

“A young warrior, though I know you are not young, at least by the reckoning of Men.” And you shall never die, Boromir added silently.

“You see a warrior?” Legolas said, surprise in his voice.

The elf, Boromir supposed, was modest, but he had seen Legolas practicing his archery as well as his knife work; he was a warrior, and a deadly one at that. “I also see a prince, although you hide your station much of the time. I see one who is homesick. And who fears for our safety ahead, although he has great trust in Gandalf and Aragorn, our guides.”

Legolas raised his eyebrows. “You see much, Boromir.”

Boromir grinned in reply. Legolas showed his feelings more readily than the rest of his people. Perhaps he was young for one of his kind. He also never tried to enter Boromir’s mind. As a result, Boromir was growing to like him. “What do you see when you look at me?” Boromir asked. _Not my dead ancestors, I pray, as you saw the dead trees!_

“I see a fair lord of Men,” Legolas said, his voice low and compelling.

Before he could stop himself, Boromir’s gaze flickered quickly over Legolas: down his body, then back up to his face. Legolas had seen his lustful glance, after all. Boromir’s smile vanished, and he looked up at the trees again, no longer seeing even trees.

***

Legolas found Boromir on a bridge the afternoon of the next day. He greeted Boromir in a friendly fashion, and Boromir eagerly returned the polite greeting; perhaps Legolas would disregard what had happened the day before between them. As they were to travel hundreds of leagues together, he dreaded awkwardness setting in before they had even left Rivendell.

His optimism faded as Legolas approached him until he was far too close, barely a hands breadth between them. Boromir stepped back. Legolas advanced again, Boromir moving back until he was pressed against the railing of the bridge.

“I would continue the conversation we were having yesterday, Boromir. You did not let me complete my thought.” The Elf’s face was impassioned, as it had been at the council, when he had chastised Boromir for speaking rudely to Aragorn, his liege lord.

Boromir smiled uncertainly, and Legolas plunged onwards. “Did it offend you that I called you fair?”

“It surprised me,” Boromir said after a moment’s hesitation. “To be called that, by one such as you.”

“Such as I?” Legolas encouraged, though there was something hard in his expression.

“Yes, one so fair as you. I could not be considered fair, in your presence.” Boromir smiled politely. His pulse quickened when Legolas’s garments brushed against his own.

Legolas laughed, and seemed to relax. “Yet I find you fair, Man of Gondor,” Legolas said. He touched Boromir’s hand, stroking his palm and wrist.

Boromir pushed him away with a hard shove and left the bridge almost at a run. Boromir could see Legolas was confused by the violence of his reaction, but the Elf had caressed Boromir just as Faramir had, whenever the brothers were reunited after a long parting. The touch had both inflamed and grieved Boromir. _Will I ever see Faramir again?_

A hundred feet away, Boromir halted and considered going back to apologize, for he knew that Legolas would be upset by his rudeness. But he could not, for it would be too easy to take the Elf in his arms and pretend he was Faramir. Legolas was undeniably beautiful; Boromir could not think of a man he had known who had been that beautiful, not even his first lover, whom he still thought may have been the most beautiful man he had ever seen. He was baffled, as well, that the Elf was drawn to him. Every day in Rivendell, Boromir saw dozens of Elves far fairer than he. Why did Legolas not pursue them, and leave him in peace?

Did he not have enough to worry about, with Elladan and Elrohir due back any day?

***

He was on the veranda outside his room that evening when Legolas found him again. The Prince of Mirkwood was persistent; Boromir had to give him that.

When Legolas was within speaking distance, Boromir nodded curtly. Earlier in the day, he had given Legolas encouragement by being polite. He would not make that mistake again. His resolve crumbled as Legolas regarded him for a long moment without speaking. Boromir stiffened, afraid the Elf would try to touch his thoughts, but it did not happen. Perhaps not all of the Elves could do it . . .

“Boromir, I have seen how you look at me.”

“I mistook you for someone else. I am sorry.”

“You thought I was a woman!” Legolas was disgusted.

Boromir did not reply; better for Legolas to think that than to know the truth.

“For hundreds of years, Boromir, I have felt men’s eyes on me, and seen their shock when they realize they looked upon a male with lust. I saw that same disappointment in your eyes, which is why I asked what you saw when you looked at me. Men have called me beautiful. _As beautiful as a maiden_.” Legolas’s voice dripped scorn. “I am no maiden! If you desire me, be honest with yourself. You may find it repugnant to desire a male, but I am not to blame for arousing that desire in you!”

“I am sorry,” Boromir said, shocked at the Elf’s tirade. He was rapidly learning that his long-held belief that Elves were passionless was ill-founded.

“No doubt your life as a soldier has taught you that it is a crude and brutal way of love. I am not to blame for that misconception, either.”

Legolas seized the front of Boromir’s tunic. “Do you know what it is like to have a man fawning after you, wooing you as if you were a woman? Many men have made that mistake with me.” He had a hard gleam in his eye. “They regretted it, later.”

“What did you do to them?” Boromir asked, intrigued. The Elf had no way of knowing that Boromir’s sympathies lay entirely with him; he would have been as repulsed as Legolas if a man had treated him that way, as a shadow of a woman.

Legolas did not speak for a moment, but his eyes glinted. “They learned I was not a maiden.”

Boromir smiled. “I know you are not a maiden. Will you spare me?”

“Yes, for you have not laid a hand on me, or wooed me with soft words. Instead, you called me a warrior.” Legolas furrowed his brow. “I do not understand you. You have made me curious.”

Boromir groaned. He had been mistaken about the Elves being passionless, but their reputation for curiosity was a matter of legend; he knew the reason behind the Elf’s persistence.

“So I have not behaved as expected, when a man looks at you with desire?’ Boromir asked.

“You have not,” Legolas said, his brow still furrowed.

“And how _should_ I have behaved?”

Legolas’s lips curled in a grim smile. “You would put your cloak over me, to protect my delicate constitution from the cold. Fetch me glasses of wine at dinner. Offer me gifts, especially jewelry. Run your hands through my hair.”

Boromir let out a breath; he had had a narrow escape with the last!

“Let me ask you this, Legolas: is there _any_ man who has looked upon you unmoved, without a flicker of interest, no matter how fleeting?”

Legolas looked down at the ground. “Not all men pursue me,” he said quietly. “But you are right; I have seen it in most men’s eyes. Even . . . even men I call my friends.”

“And yet you hold yourself not to blame for this? Can you not see that you are liable, because of your beauty?” Impatience crept into Boromir’s voice. Boromir had had to deal with unwanted attention all of his life as well, and it was not that difficult to ignore; could not Legolas do the same?

Legolas thought for a moment. “I had not looked at it that way. But surely I am not to blame for my . . . appearance.”

“Were there any men you accepted?” Boromir asked, curious again.

“No. I have taken lovers only from my own kind.”

“I spoke the truth, Legolas, when I said I mistook you for another. Another man, if you please, not an Elf or a woman.” Boromir grinned. “Another warrior.”

Comprehension dawned. “You prefer men?” Legolas asked, his face still doubtful.

“Yes,” said Boromir. _Though perhaps I should say males. For Elrohir is not a man, but he is certainly male._ “I know that it is not a crude and brutal love, as you put it.” Boromir waited tensely for Legolas to reply. He had concluded, from Legolas’s comments, that the Elf was the same as he, a lover of men, although Legolas had not stated it explicitly. If he was wrong . . .

To his relief, Legolas smiled. “Then we are even, Boromir. We both mistook the other for someone he was not. Will you forgive me?”

“Of course.”

Legolas clasped his shoulder, a brotherly gesture, then turned and walked away.

_Wait. Don’t go._ Empathy surged in Boromir for all of the men who had fallen for Legolas’s charms. Then he laughed, imagining Legolas encouraging the clumsy wooing of a besotted man, and the shock on the man’s face when the fair Elf turned into the warrior he was, and exacted his revenge -- whatever that might be, for Legolas had not been specific. Boromir wished he could have seen it. He went to sleep smiling.

***

The days passed peacefully. He and Legolas spent much time together, for the Mirkwood prince had agreed to be his sparring partner. They found a deserted courtyard slightly removed from the dwellings of Rivendell, where they could make as much noise as they liked.

Boromir was out of practice after his long journey from Minas Tirith, and the first few days were painful; then he had the satisfaction of fighting Legolas to a draw with swords, and then defeating him with that weapon, although Boromir could not approach the Elf’s skill in archery or with knives. He asked Legolas for help with his knife work, for he knew that he was unlikely to improve with a bow; he did not have the eye for it. It was a talent some were born with, like Faramir, he thought.

The Elf humiliated him by having him practice drawing a knife over and over, until Boromir complained. Legolas was firm. “Nothing is more important than your speed in drawing your blade. So do it again!” Boromir sighed and did it again. And again . . .

With a mixture of regret and relief, Boromir recognized that Legolas was determined to conduct himself as if the moment on the bridge, when Legolas had stroked his hand, had never happened. It had never been clear, after all, if Legolas were pursuing him or setting him up for a spectacular disappointment. Legolas had said that he had never taken a Man as his lover, and Boromir was not so prideful to think himself different from the long list of humiliated men in Legolas’s past. He had been spared Legolas’s revenge, not Legolas’s lust.

**December 22, 3018**

Boromir returned to his room after bathing in preparation for the evening meal, for it had become customary for him to wear his leather surcoat and mail during the day for weapons practice, and then to wash before dinner and dress himself in Elvish clothing. More of what he assumed were Aragorn’s robes had made their way into his room; he suspected both Lindir and Aragorn were behind the multitude of silk and velvet garments in the wardrobe, not to mention the ornately embellished sandals.

There was a new robe hanging on a peg in the wardrobe, and he eyed it curiously. It was of black silk, with a wide red border around the neck and hem. He put it on, noting that it fit uncommonly well, the shoulders hanging just right with no adjustments. The neckline was low and split, exposing his throat and collarbone, so he fastened his silver collar around his neck. He had not worn the collar for some weeks, for the robes he had been wearing were high necked. He left to dine.

***

He had asked Legolas about the beautiful woman who sometimes dined with them, and had learned she was Elrond’s daughter, Arwen. As uninterested in women as he was, her beauty left him inarticulate. At times, he saw a white radiance around her. It was, he thought, more noticeable when Aragorn was near.

That night, he saw that the jewel she always wore around her throat was around Aragorn’s throat. He started in surprise. Since arriving in Rivendell, he had recalled all of his Numenorean history: that the kings of Numenor were descended from Elrond’s brother, Elros, and that Arwen and Aragorn were therefore far-off kin. The Chieftain of the Rangers was ambitious, indeed.

After the meal, he walked to the Hall of Fire with Legolas. The Elves had grown used to seeing him in their attire, but that night he noticed several were nevertheless riveted by his appearance. The new robe was striking, he thought, more so for not being a style or hue that the Elves themselves wore. The Elves of Rivendell wore the colors of nature: green, brown, and gold. Even Legolas had commented on his appearance, but in a teasing manner that Boromir did not take offense at.

They were making a slow circuit of the room, for Boromir still found himself likely to sleep if he sat down in the Hall of Fire. Legolas wrapped an arm about his waist. “I am the envy of everyone,” Legolas whispered in his ear. “All eyes are on you tonight.”

Boromir smiled tolerantly. He was sure they were all looking at him with the desire to get rid of him so that they could monopolize Legolas. Legolas was wearing a dull gold robe that Boromir had an urge to rip off of him -- if they had not become friends.

Legolas took in a breath. “He in particular is studying you.” He moved his head very slightly to their left.

Boromir glanced to their left and saw Elrohir sitting on the floor, close to Elrond’s chair. Elladan rose from the floor, where he had been sitting near his brother, and smiled at Legolas.

Legolas grinned. “The twins! I have not seen them for years! I must greet them,” he said, dragging Boromir with him.

Boromir enjoyed the rare chance to look down upon Elrohir. He lost his advantage immediately, for Elrohir stood.

_Man-high, indeed_ , Boromir thought miserably. During the height of the Numenorean realm, man-high meant six feet, four inches. But few men were now that tall, while Elladan and Elrohir exceeded it.

Legolas seemed undisturbed by the variance in height, throwing his arms around Elladan’s neck. Boromir watched with interest the soft smile the prince of Rivendell gave the prince of Mirkwood. He had never seen Elladan with such a mild expression.

Elrohir’s gaze raked Boromir, taking in the robe, the collar, and the sandals that left Boromir’s feet nearly bare.

When Boromir had met the twins in the Angle, he had been completely disconcerted by them, Elrohir in particular. Now, it was far worse, for he knew they were Elrond’s sons, two of the greatest warriors of this or any other age. Beside them, he was like a boy. He did not relish the sensation.

Or did he? He had an odd tight feeling in his stomach, and, whenever he thought of Elrohir, his mind was full of erotic variations of surrender. At the moment, however, he was simply tongue-tied, like a young soldier who has at last met the general he idolizes. What could he say to a being three thousand years old who had killed tens of thousands of Orcs?

He listened to the conversation Legolas was having with Elladan, as he found it easier to meet Elladan’s eyes. To his horror, Legolas was inviting the twins to meet them the following day when Boromir and Legolas were sparring. The thought of Elrohir watching him draw a knife over and over did not appeal, although Legolas had eased up on him recently, having him focus solely on the different methods of gripping a knife. Boromir winced.

Elrohir moved close to Boromir. “Where did you get this clothing? It looks as though it were made for you. And you are wearing sandals!”

“Lindir and Aragorn are in league with each other to turn me into an Elf,” Boromir said, his eyes meeting Elrohir’s for a brief moment. “A hopeless task, but it makes them happy, so I’ve permitted it.”

“I approve,” Elrohir said in the quietest voice Boromir had yet heard him use. “Perhaps I shall join with them in their efforts.” He put a hand on Boromir’s back and gave him a nudge. Boromir responded to the touch, letting himself be pushed gently in the direction Elrohir wanted him to go. They ended up outside on the veranda. The moon was behind a cloud and it was dark, even in comparison to the dim light of the Hall of Fire.

The cold air crept under Boromir’s robe, but he did not shiver. He had put up with far worse. Some parts of him hardened, however. Elrohir put his hands on Boromir’s shoulders.

“Boromir, I wished to tell you, away from prying ears, that Elladan holds no grudge. I passed your apology on to him.” He moved his hands slightly back and forth on Boromir’s shoulders, dragging the silk across Boromir’s hard nipples.

Boromir was looking directly at Elrohir’s chest. The neckline of Elrohir’s robe was open, so Boromir could see far, far down it if he leaned forward a bit more . . . Too late, he realized Elrohir could see down the front of his robe with even greater ease.

Elrohir’s hands, burning hot through Boromir’s robe, slid down his back, stopping just above the curve of Boromir’s buttocks. _So much for the passionless Elves._

“That’s welcome news,” Boromir croaked. What were they talking about? He had forgotten.

“Boromir, I must go now to rest. Elladan and I arrived only this morning, and we have spent the whole of the day with our father, taking counsel. We made a great journey and had little rest, for we pressed on by day and by night.”

“You look well,” Boromir blurted. “I mean to say . . . you do not appear tired. I thought Elves did not weary as easily as men.”

“As soon as we entered the valley, our hearts were eased. Yet you must not think of Elladan and I, or our sister for that matter, as Elves. We are the Peredhil, the Half-elven, and we share the traits of both kindreds. So I must sleep, especially if Legolas expects us to meet with you tomorrow, early. You are working on your skill with a knife? I can help.”

“Do not trouble yourself; I’m just a beginner.”

Elrohir smiled, taking his hands off Boromir’s shoulders. “A beginner? Boromir, you are known to be Gondor’s mightiest warrior, which implies you are the mightiest warrior of Men in Middle-earth.”

“There are many warriors more skilled than I, and with more strength.”

“Name one.”

“Eomer, the king of Rohan’s nephew.”

Elrohir appeared thoughtful. “He is mighty in battle? You have fought at his side often?”

“Ur, no, not really. Just the once.” Boromir reddened. “And then Halbarad -- I’m sure you would agree that he is . . .”

“You have fought at his side, as well?” Elrohir was grinning. “Tell me more. Your list is fascinating.”

“What about Aragorn?”

“I _know_ you have not fought with _him_!”

“No, but Halbarad told me tales . . . “

“He invented them.”

“And, last but not least, Legolas. He far exceeds my skill with a bow and knife. I can defeat him with a sword, however.”

“Legolas as well! And you can defeat him with a blade. Then I shall be on my guard tomorrow. I want to be sure of gaining a place on your list.” Elrohir’s grin was unrestrained, and Boromir dropped his eyes to the ground, his nerve failing him.

After Elrohir left him, he did not return to the Hall of Fire, but went straight to his room. He undressed, leaving the collar on, for he had noticed Elrohir staring at it, and not in distaste, as he had thought when they met in the Angle. He slipped under the blankets, otherwise naked, and let Elrohir fill his thoughts, as the Half-elf had done ever since he had met him in the Angle nearly four months earlier. He lay on his back, his fingers stroking the collar around his throat.

For the first time, his fantasy of Elrohir was not solely of the Half-elf taking him almost by force. Instead, he imagined Elrohir’s hands snaking down his chest. He stroked his nipples and breathed hard, thinking of Elrohir’s sword calloused hands . . .

Swords! The plan for the coming day returned to his mind, but it was swiftly incorporated into his lustful imaginings: He and Elrohir were sparring with swords, and Elrohir soon had him on the ground, pinned. Boromir moaned softly at the thought of Elrohir’s weight on top of him. He rolled over onto his stomach and lifted his hips, reaching below himself. He wanted to feel Elrohir crush him . . .

After his efforts had brought him momentary relief, he mused on the strangeness of fate. How he felt about Elrohir was the way many young soldiers had felt about him: awestruck, speechless, and burning with desire. Elrohir was far above him, but, by some stroke of luck, he seemed to desire Boromir. Perhaps it was no more than curiosity on the part of the Elf -- the Peredhil -- but Boromir did not care _why_ , only _when_.

The young soldiers who had submitted to Boromir had a look of gratitude when he had finished with them. What were they grateful for? Would he look at Elrohir that way . . . afterwards?

It had always been a mystery to him, for he knew himself -- he was not the exalted being the young soldiers imagined him to be. He was beset by fears and doubts, like any other man, yet to them, he was superior. When he took notice of them, it made them greater, as well.

But there was more to it than that, he was sure of it. He envied the soldiers, for they gained more from their shared passion than he did. Hence the look of gratitude? When he took them, they gave themselves over to him completely, oddly enough making him feel that they had captured him, instead of the other way around.

Their neediness drew from him all that he had to give. He was responsible for their pleasure, as well as his own, while they could give themselves over to sensation.

That was what he wanted: for Elrohir to take all the responsibility for his pleasure, so he could feel it to its fullest. Every last touch, kiss, lick, bite . . . He cursed. He was aroused again.

***

The day dawned clear and cool, undeniably perfect weather for sparring outdoors. Boromir ate a light breakfast, strapped on his sword and shield, and went for a brisk walk to warm himself. He met Legolas as he returned. It seemed the Elf was also returning from a walk, already fully armed with his bow, quiver, and knives.

“You and Elrohir disappeared suddenly last night,” Legolas said, his expression bland.

Boromir matched his tone. “I went straight to bed.”

Legolas looked at him disbelievingly.

“And how did you and Elladan get along, after we left?” Boromir asked quickly, trying to put Legolas on the defensive. But the elf merely laughed.

“He went to his room to sleep moments later.”

“Elrohir, too.”

They walked in silence, both thinking the other was absurdly obvious while they were inscrutable. “So Elladan does not think you are as a fair as a maiden, then?” Boromir teased.

It was the first time Boromir had seen an Elf blush, and he relished the sight. Legolas quickly recovered. “I am honored to be Elladan’s friend,” he said primly.

Boromir was surprised at the obtuseness of the Elf. Even he could see Elladan’s interest in Legolas. But Legolas’s concerns fled his mind when they reached the courtyard. The twins were already there, grinning fiercely.


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After traveling through the Angle, Boromir arrives in Rivendell and meets Aragorn, Legolas . . . and the Ring.

A cloth on the ground was covered with swords and knives. Boromir flushed when he spotted wooden practice weapons in the pile. He had not used one for decades.

After greeting them, the twins quickly dominated the proceedings. “Shall we start with swords?” Elrohir asked, flashing Boromir a brief smile. Legolas gave a mock groan. Elladan provided Legolas with a suitable sword, while Boromir drew his own.

It was a sword and a half, so-called because it took most men two hands to wield it, yet Boromir could wield it with one. The extra weight was an advantage in battle, for once the blade connected, the enemy was dead. Legolas had fought only with light swords in the past, so he was at a disadvantage.

Elladan pulled Legolas aside and showed him how to wield the heavier sword two handed. Legolas had fought holding it one handed during his past sessions with Boromir, mimicking him, even though it hampered the Elf’s control. If Legolas could learn to wield the sword two handed, he would be as lethal with a sword as he was with everything else, Boromir thought.

Boromir watched Legolas swing the sword through the air, his fair face intent. “He’s as eager to not look a fool as I am,” Boromir thought. “May we both not look like fools!” He wanted to beat Legolas, but he had no desire to embarrass him in front of Elladan. Then, perhaps, Legolas would have mercy on him when they practiced with the knives!

After a few minutes, they began. Legolas had greater control wielding the sword two handed, but the change slowed his movements. Boromir swiftly knocked Legolas’s sword out of his hands. Legolas turned pink, and they started again. Boromir was now feeling confident and it took him even less time to disarm Legolas.

They stared at each other, breathing hard, for the weight of the swords tired them swiftly.

“Now for knives!” Elladan said cheerily. Elrohir grinned.

Legolas did not run to the knives but his pace was undeniably quicker. Boromir approached the pile of weapons slowly. He had not anticipated that he would fight Legolas with knives in front of the twins. For the last month, Legolas had drilled him on technique, with minimal time spent on combat. He had expected the twins to do nothing more than comment on his form.

Legolas looked with disgust at the wooden practice knives Elrohir placed in his hand, while Boromir hid his relief.

“Begin with these, Legolas,” Elladan said softly, giving Legolas such a warm look that Boromir wondered how the Mirkwood prince could think he was merely a friend.

Because Legolas was accustomed to fighting with two knives, Boromir had done the same when they sparred, just as Legolas had copied his one-handed sword grip. Elrohir stepped forward and took one of the wooden practice knives away from Boromir.

“Pick up your shield,” he told Boromir. “You are unlikely to fight with two blades in battle.”

Boromir took Elrohir’s advice. He was immediately more comfortable holding one knife and his shield. Boromir grinned at Legolas’s expression; he assumed it was the one the besotted men saw shortly before they met their doom.

As he was uncomfortable attacking with the knives, even wooden ones, he concentrated on defense, letting Legolas make the first move. It did not take long; Legolas came at him with both blades so quickly Boromir barely saw the Elf move. He deflected one of the strikes with his shield, but it was too late: Legolas had tricked him with a feint and brought both knives down on the thickly muscled area between his neck and collarbone.

Boromir winced, for the wooden knives were heavy; the handles were filled with metal so that their weight approximated a real weapon. The intent look faded from Legolas’s face. “Sorry,” Legolas muttered.

“That’s enough practice!” Elrohir boomed. He handed Legolas his white knives and gave Boromir a similar long knife. “Legolas, what grip do you recommend for Boromir?”

“I am not yet sure. He is most familiar with the hammer grip.”

“Suitable for a beginner, but not, I think, best for one with his strength. Has he tried the reverse grip?”

“No,” Legolas said thoughtfully. “That might work well for him.”

“The reverse grip it is,” Elrohir said. He showed Boromir how to hold the knife -- backwards, it seemed, to Boromir -- bracing the dull edge of the knife on his forearm, with the sharp edge facing out, and the point near his elbow.

“Ideal for slashing the arms and hands. Or bend your elbow and raise your arm, and” -- Elrohir ripped the blade upwards -- “take off your enemy’s face!” Elrohir whispered to Boromir, “You can use all of your strength this way, and he cannot take the knife away from you so easily.”

“I heard that, Elrohir.” Legolas was grinning with pleasure; he had finally noticed Elladan’s admiring eyes on him.

“I’d hate to take off _that_ face,” Boromir said, smiling.

Elladan laughed. “Have no fear; you will not get that close.”

Legolas and Boromir circled each other. Boromir could feel Elrohir’s eyes burning into him. “Stop!” Elrohir shouted.

“What is it, Legolas, that one must keep in mind when fighting with knives?” Elrohir asked seriously.

Legolas grinned savagely. “Expect to be cut.”

“Do you hear that, Boromir? Expect to be cut. You are protecting your hands and arms; you should protect your chest and your throat. What else do we say, Legolas?” Elrohir asked.

His grin just as devilish, Legolas said, “You may cut my hand, but I shall take your life.”*

“Precisely. The arms and the hands must act as a shield. Pardon me, Legolas, but I’m going to take one of your knives, and Boromir’s shield. I want this to be as close to battle conditions as possible. Boromir will never face an Elf wielding two knives, thank the Valar.”

They took up their stances. Elladan interrupted this time. “Legolas! Don’t move. Make him come at you.” Legolas obeyed with a smile.

“Slash his arms! Cut him!” Elrohir urged Boromir. “Go for his knuckles!”

Valar help me, Boromir thought. How did I get myself into this? Here I am with two bloodthirsty Peredhil and one insane Elf, all of them grinning like fiends . . .

He fought the urge to shut his eyes as he darted at Legolas, keeping his arms and knife between himself and Legolas’s knife, and attacked Legolas’s arms and hands, not his unreachable torso. It was easier, gripping the knife in the new way; it was much like holding his shield.

There was a searing pain in his forearm. Legolas grunted. Boromir halted in disbelief: he had cut Legolas’s knife hand! It was the first time he had managed to strike Legolas with a knife. He was so shocked his companions laughed uproariously.

“That is enough for today,” Elladan said. He bound up the long cut on Boromir’s forearm, then the cut across the knuckles of Legolas’s hand.

As soon as their wounds were staunched, Legolas threw his arms around Boromir and pounded his back. “You did wonderfully!”

Boromir did not think he had performed impressively; he had been lucky, that was all. But he was warmed by Legolas’s enthusiasm. When Legolas released him, he bowed. “All credit must go to my teacher.”

“I agree!” Elladan said. “Without Legolas, you would still be waving knives in the air as if you were trying to shave our heads!”

Boromir risked a look at Elrohir and flushed at the expression on the Peredhil’s face. Eomer had teased Boromir about looking at him as if he were a roast Boromir was about to devour. Elrohir was looking at him in the same way. _Thinking of what sauce to serve me with?_

“We are not done here,” Elrohir said. He rose from the ground, where he had been sitting. “Legolas, have you reviewed Hands Against The Knife?”

“Not at all,” Legolas said, surprised. “I did not think . . .”

“You should have, for in combat it is unfortunately common. Come, Boromir. You will spar with me.”

Boromir tried to breathe evenly. Legolas wordlessly handed him a skin of water and he drank down most of it.

Elrohir sauntered to the middle of the courtyard, empty handed. “Choose a knife, Boromir.”

Boromir retrieved the long knife he had been using. The blade was sixteen inches long, the handle eight. He held it in the reverse grip, and did not pick up his shield.

“Now, Boromir, we will practice Hands Against The Knife. You have the knife, I have the hands.” Elrohir smiled serenely. Boromir tried not to sweat -- or to sweat any more than he was already sweating. Legolas and Elladan sat on the ground near the edge of the courtyard and watched expectantly. “In battle, you may have to go up against an enemy who has a knife, when you have nothing. It has happened to me more times than I can count.”

Boromir nodded. “As you have no knife, I assume it is pointless for me to attack your arms or hands.” He licked his lips and tried to smile.

“Yes. You cannot disarm me, for I am not armed. Go for my face, my throat, or my chest. Or here” -- Elrohir tapped his shoulders, where Legolas had struck Boromir a blow -- “for it is fleshy and will not deflect the blade. The inner thigh is even better, but I have no intention of letting you get close to me there -- with a knife.” Elladan and Legolas laughed.

A brief smile flickered over Boromir’s face, and he focused on the task at hand. All he had to do was make a single cut on the six and a half foot tall unarmed Elf. How hard could it be? He smiled grimly; he had thought of a way to surprise Elrohir. He rushed at Elrohir, keeping his arms low so that the Elf would not guess his intention. Then he spun to Elrohir’s side, grasped one of his long braids, and sliced it off.

Elladan and Legolas erupted into laughter, rolling on the ground, but Boromir’s triumph was short-lived.

A hard hand gripped his wrist and twisted his arm up behind his head. The knife was plucked from his hand. Elrohir yanked him backwards, standing behind him, and wrapped one arm around Boromir’s throat, his bent knee pressed into Boromir’s spine. The Peredhil held the knife pointed at his chest.

“You may take my braid, but I shall take your life,” Elrohir whispered.

“Take me, then,” Boromir whispered back. He leaned against the body behind him, ignoring the pain of the knee in his back. “It will be worth it, if I can keep the braid.”

Elrohir lowered his knee, tossed the knife away, used his now empty hand to pull Boromir’s head back by his hair, and kissed him. Boromir opened his mouth immediately, his neck awkwardly bent to kiss the tall Peredhil. Elrohir’s lips were burning hot, his tongue even hotter; Boromir had imagined his mouth would be cool against his. _The passionless Elves._ There was an abrupt silence as Elladan and Legolas stopped laughing.

Elrohir let Boromir go. Boromir staggered, and glanced at Legolas and Elladan, acutely aware of their silence.

Earning Boromir’s eternal admiration, Legolas seized Elladan and kissed him. They were both still sitting on the ground, and the force of the Mirkwood prince’s assault knocked Elladan over onto his back. Elladan pushed Legolas off and sat up. He stood, then reached down to pull Legolas up. They grinned into each other’s faces, paying no more attention to Boromir and Elrohir.

“Now I think we are through for the day,” Elrohir said softly. “Will you assist me in returning these weapons to the armoury?” His voice was calm, as if he had not just given Boromir a kiss that had made his bones melt.

“Of course,” Boromir said. He glanced at Elladan and Legolas, who were rolling on the ground. He raised his eyebrows, seeing that Legolas was staying on top.

He helped Elrohir return the weapons. Without speaking, they went indoors and ate lunch in the common room. When they were through, Elrohir rose from the table and bowed slightly. “I must go . . .” His voice abruptly died, and he grabbed Boromir’s wrist. Blood soaked Boromir’s sleeve. “I am sorry, Boromir. This is my fault. I should not have insisted on sparring after you were cut. I’ll take you to my father. It may need to be stitched.”

Boromir followed him, getting lost as they followed the passages that twisted and turned. They came at last into a sun-filled room at the back of the house. It reminded Boromir of a ward of the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, although this room had an even greater sense of peace.

An Elf woman with dark brown hair and blue eyes asked Boromir to strip to the waist. Elrohir assisted him in taking off his clothing, for his arm was starting to pain him, feeling tender and swollen. He sat in a chair while the woman examined his arm. “I will go fetch your father,” she told Elrohir, then left.

Boromir grinned at Elrohir. He had secreted the braid in a pocket of his surcoat. Elrond entered the room moments later and looked at Boromir’s arm without speaking. He palpated Boromir’s shoulders where bruises were forming, then returned his attention to Boromir’s arm.

“Knife?” he asked Elrohir, who nodded, looking shamefaced.

Elrond fetched a salve. Boromir tensed his arm, and Elrond smiled. “It will not hurt.” Boromir let out a breath as the salve touched the wound; the pain vanished immediately. He relaxed.

“I will not need to stitch it,” Elrond said. “Elrohir.” His voice was sharp.

“Yes, father?”

“This cut is more than an hour old.”

“It re-opened because I sparred with Boromir after Legolas cut his arm.” Elrohir said. “It was a mistake; I deeply regret it.” Boromir enjoyed Elrohir’s rare discomfiture.

“Be wary of my sons, Boromir. They take no care for their own safety, or for the safety of others.” Elrond’s voice was mild.

Boromir reached into his surcoat. “He has paid for his mistake,” he said, and swung the braid in the air. He became one of the few mortal men who had ever seen the Lord of Rivendell laugh.

***

Elrond asked Boromir to stay and rest for a couple of hours so he could be sure the wound did not reopen. Boromir lay on one of the soft couches in the room, positioned so he could look out a window at the forested hillside. He dozed off.

He awoke as the sun was setting, surprised at how long he had been asleep -- but his sleep had been disturbed the night before, thanks to Elrohir. Someone had covered him with a blanket while he slept. He pushed it off and examined his arm. The cut had the dry appearance that all successfully healing wounds had. He was sure it would not reopen. He began to dress, but decided not to, for his arm was still stiff. He went to his room swiftly, following the veranda outside instead of the twisting inner passages.

He washed himself thoroughly, including his hair, keeping his injured arm out of the water. He rummaged through his clothing, finally choosing the dark red velvet robe he had worn the first night he arrived in Rivendell. It had a low enough neck that he could wear his silver collar again. He trimmed his beard carefully, combed his hair, and laughed at himself in the small mirror. He was ready for dinner. If he stayed in Rivendell any longer, he would have pointy ears next! Perhaps he should grow his hair a bit longer . . . no, that way lied madness!

When he entered the dining hall, Legolas grabbed his arm -- the uninjured one -- and guided him to Elrond’s table. Aragorn, Gandalf, Elladan, and Elrohir were already there, as were Arwen and two of the Halflings, Frodo and Bilbo. Two elves who looked as authoritative and as wise as Elrond were there, Erestor and Glorfindel. Boromir was quiet in such august company. Legolas sat to his right, and he was grateful for his friend’s presence. Aragorn sat on his left, but he was too busy holding hands with Arwen under the table to be much of a conversationalist.

Frodo sat opposite Boromir. “I heard about your sparring practice earlier today,” the Halfling said.

Boromir laughed. “Alas, I fear that my incompetence with knives must be all over Rivendell by now.”

Frodo raised his eyebrows. “That was not what I heard. I heard that you gave Elrohir a close shave, and cut Legolas’s weapon hand.” Frodo’s eyes were admiring, and Boromir flushed.

He had forgotten that, to the Halfling, his ability to fight alongside the twins and Legolas made him mighty indeed. It was no matter to Frodo that Boromir could not defeat them -- that he could simply spar with them was something the Halfling could never accomplish. He resolved to teach the Halflings how to defend themselves, as they traveled South, for his heart told him they would need such knowledge before the end.

Aragorn chuckled. “Yes, we heard you had a souvenir from Elrohir.”

At the word _souvenir_ , Boromir thought immediately of Elrohir’s kiss, but he knew they were referring to the braid, which he had in his pocket; he was not going to be parted from it easily. He glanced down the table at Elrohir. The twins were sitting on either side of Elrond. Arwen and Aragorn were to Elladan’s right, while Elrohir was across from his brother. Elrohir met his eyes steadily.

Now that he had seen Elladan and Elrohir in the company of other Elves, he could see the difference between them, their mixed kindred obvious. They were heavier in build, like men, and though they had no beards like the Elves, there was a dusting of hair on their bodies.

Boromir forced himself to not avert his eyes. Elrohir’s hair was unbraided and he had no lack of it, in spite of the thick braid Boromir had cut off. His dark chestnut hair spilled over his shoulders. He was wearing a deep blue robe that was open at the throat. His grey eyes seemed otherworldly to Boromir, for they were light in color, with a darker ring around the iris. Elrohir was beautiful beyond mortal kind, and beyond Elven kind as well, Boromir thought, for his face was fair and unmarked, and yet he burst with the vitality and strength of Men. Boromir took in the vision in a mere moment, then dropped his gaze to his plate.

He concentrated on eating, for he had a good appetite following his exertions earlier that day. Legolas could not see Elladan easily from where he was sitting, and Boromir enjoyed watching the Mirkwood prince shift impatiently in his seat, leaning forward so that he could look down the table. Boromir wondered what had happened after he and Elrohir had left the courtyard.

The meal finished, they rose and went to the Hall of Fire. Legolas immediately took Boromir’s arm and went towards Elrond’s chair, where the twins usually sat. Boromir felt his mouth drying and his heart thudding at being near Elrohir again, but he would not abandon Legolas. He sensed that the prince was using him to bolster his nerves. They sat on cushions on the floor, and shortly after Elladan and Elrohir joined them. Elladan sat next to Legolas, who let out a soft sigh. Elrond sat in his chair, his dark-haired councilor Erestor next to him on a low stool. They put their heads together and spoke in low voices.

Boromir jumped when Elrohir offered him a glass of wine. He took it, and Elrohir sat close, so that their sides were touching. Boromir eyed Legolas and Elladan, who were also close; between the four of them, there was so much tension he was surprised the air did not crackle. For once, he was not feeling drowsy in the Hall of Fire.

They sat in silence for nearly an hour, listening to the other Elves sing or tell tales, then Elrohir nudged his back as he had the night before. Boromir stood and allowed Elrohir to subtly push him once again. They circled the building almost completely before they halted, then stood on the veranda and admired the moonrise.

“Boromir, why do you avoid my gaze?”

Boromir made himself look up and was immediately smitten by Elrohir’s face. It was such a strong face, yet so beautiful, that it made him dizzy.

“Boromir, please do not look at me like that,” Elrohir said. “As if I were unreal, perhaps, or . . .”  
  
Boromir said, “As if I worshipped you?”

“Yes,” Elrohir said after a momentary silence.

Boromir smiled ruefully. “I know that look. I have had it from young soldiers, who thought I was more than I was.”

“Then you know how disconcerting it is,” Elrohir said.

“Nay, for you are not less than I think you are,” Boromir said. “It is not the same.” He fell silent, for Elrohir’s hands were sliding up and down his back. With each pass of his hands, Elrohir pulled him closer. Boromir’s momentary composure vanished.

“Boromir,” Elrohir said, his voice no more than a whisper. “Let us worship each other, then.” His arms circled Boromir’s waist, pulling him close, and he bent to kiss him.

Elrohir’s hands slid down over his buttocks. Then Elrohir grasped his hips, and pulled Boromir up so their faces were on a level. Boromir wrapped his arms around Elrohir’s neck, then wrapped his legs around Elrohir’s waist. Elrohir immediately braced him with hands on his buttocks. Their mouths opened at the same instant.

For close to four months, Boromir had spent nearly every night thinking about Elrohir touching him, and his need was violent as their bodies came together. Boromir moved his hips against the Peredhil as if Elrohir were already buried deep inside him. Elrohir cried out into his mouth, and Boromir was flooded with desire. He could not have stopped, not even if Faramir himself had been there.

Elrohir set him down and half pulled him, half carried him, through the nearest door. They had been kissing outside of Elrohir’s room. Seeing the room fed the fires of Boromir’s desire, fanned them hotter. Elrohir had brought Boromir to his room, as Boromir had imagined . . .

The room was dark, lit only by the dim light that came in from outside. Boromir kicked off his sandals as Elrohir pulled the robe off over his head in one swift movement, then his own robe followed it onto the floor. They pressed against each other. Boromir pushed Elrohir towards the bed, but it was like trying to move a tree rooted in the ground.

Elrohir laughed, a sound that sent a thrill down his spine. “I know what you want, Boromir.” He pulled Boromir up so that Boromir could wrap his legs around his waist again. “Right here. Like this.”

As if Boromir weighed nothing, Elrohir strolled to the bed and picked something up. Slippery fingers touched Boromir and he started, clamping his arms hard around Elrohir’s neck. “Not as you imagined, is it?” Elrohir whispered. His fingers brushed the cleft of Boromir’s buttocks, and Boromir forced himself to relax. “Are you feeling helpless enough? Too helpless?”

Boromir ignored Elrohir’s insinuation that he knew Boromir’s fantasy, for he _was_ feeling too helpless.

Elrohir pulled him up higher, so that Boromir’s chin was nearly resting on the top of his head, then held him with one hand for a moment to position himself. “This is more difficult than I thought,” Boromir considered until Elrohir lowered Boromir onto his cock, at which point thought ceased.

Boromir tightened his arms and legs reflexively. For a long moment, they kissed without moving. “Now?” Elrohir murmured into his mouth. “Now,” Boromir said.

Elrohir slid his hands under Boromir’s thighs to lift him, then lowered Boromir as he simultaneously pushed his hips forward. Boromir let out a loud moan. Elrohir silenced him with a hard kiss. Boromir locked his hands behind Elrohir’s neck, his fingers interlaced. Elrohir lifted him again, dropped him, thrust forward . . . Boromir’s moan was drowned in Elrohir’s mouth. He was no longer holding on with his legs, but it did not matter; Elrohir had a firm grip on him. Lifted, dropped . . . Boromir’s head fell back, his unmuffled moan echoing loudly in the room. Not being in control of his or Elrohir’s movements made him weak with desire. Elrohir established a rhythm, moving faster against his body. _Oh gods it feels even better than I imagined . . ._ Boromir gave himself over to the pleasure of it, letting himself go limp in Elrohir’s arms.

Elrohir moved towards the bed, and Boromir was reminded of a ship at sea, rising and falling. A cool silk coverlet touched his skin. As soon as Boromir was flat on his back, Elrohir withdrew from him. Boromir cried out in frustration. Elrohir positioned him in the center of the bed, then soft silk touched Boromir’s neck. He put his hands up to feel it and found Elrohir had looped silken scarves around the collar he wore. Elrohir wrapped the ends of the scarves around his hands, pulling them tight, forcing Boromir to move his head. Elrohir placed his hands flat on the bed and Boromir’s head followed.

“Now you are harnessed,” Elrohir said with satisfaction. “I’ve wanted to do this since the day I saw you in the tavern, when you looked at me so insolently. You wanted me then: admit it.” Boromir did not reply; he thrashed, desperate for Elrohir to be inside him again.

Elrohir knelt between Boromir’s widespread legs and wrapped more of the fabric around his hands, so that only a few inches of scarf went from his hands to Boromir’s collar. Boromir’s head was stilled, but the rest of him continued to writhe on the bed. Elrohir entered him in one thrust, then pounded into him, a driving motion bordering on pain. Boromir teetered between anguish and rapture. Elrohir rested above him on his hands and knees, his hands pulling the scarves tight, the collar putting slight pressure on Boromir’s neck, just enough to let him know the restraint was there.

Then Elrohir shifted and his strokes were longer and slower, giving maximum pleasure. Boromir’s legs were spread wide, his thighs at right angles to his body.

_Boromir._ Boromir gasped in alarm as Elrohir touched his mind, for he had no defense against it. It was not simply Elrohir’s voice in his mind; it was breathless words and emotions and images intermixed, as they were in his own mind. It was a chaotic jumble, but then an image grew stronger, blotting out the confusion. And he saw himself.

He saw himself, spread out on the bed, his mouth open in passion, his body tensed and sweating, striving to meet every one of Elrohir’s thrusts. His hands were clenched into fists. His cock was erect, the tip of it glistening with moisture. His hair streamed over the pillow, the strands moving with each shock of Elrohir’s body colliding with his own. _I am beautiful_ , Boromir thought, and was amazed. Elrohir’s amusement curled around him as he was transfixed, seeing himself. Boromir glowed, his hair and skin and collar shining in the dim light. _Golden one. Shining one._ Elrohir’s amusement vanished and Boromir was bombarded with the sensation of the Elf’s passion.

“Too much,” Boromir gasped. The Elf’s desire, his image of Boromir, and Elrohir moving inside him . . . it was overpowering. He tried to lift himself but the collar kept him in place. He could do nothing to stop it. With that thought, it was if a key had turned. He screamed hoarsely as his orgasm erupted. He was faintly aware that Elrohir had cried out with him, and was thrusting into him hard and erratically as Boromir’s body convulsed.

***

Boromir woke sometime in the night. Elrohir’s heavy arm was across his chest, his lips next to Boromir’s ear. Boromir listened to his breathing. It was like listening to a seashell, a soft susurration. He had been awake for only a moment when Elrohir stirred and awakened, sensing his small movements. _My lethal warrior_ , Boromir thought, and smiled. _I’d hate to sneak up on him in his sleep. He’d probably kill me before he was fully awake . . ._

Elrohir kissed his cheek, then his lips. “Shining one,” he whispered.

Boromir swallowed, his mouth dry. The term of endearment was one he used only with Faramir. He heartily wished Elrohir would stop demonstrating that he could read his thoughts.. “Do you know everything I’m thinking?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“No. It is like a mountain range drowned in the sea. I see the tips of the peaks above the water, but not what stretches far below. What you feel most deeply. Sometimes I see an image clearly, but it lasts for only a moment.”

“That’s bad enough,” Boromir said, trying to sound unconcerned. Elrohir laughed.

“I know you have been tempted by the ring, Boromir.”

Boromir stiffened.

“Do not let it grieve you, for we all are. Even the Halfling Sam dreams of his garden covering all of Middle-earth. We cannot deny the pull of it, but we can deny giving into it.” Elrohir stroked his face, and Boromir gradually relaxed.

He wondered how much Elrohir could see, and decided to test him, though he knew it was a dangerous game.

“Do you know who the shining one truly is?” Boromir asked.

“Faramir. He is your shining one, and you are his.” Elrohir’s smile was heavy with complicity.

Boromir was silent. If Elrohir knew that, he knew everything. And then there came to him a rare moment of insight, as Faramir had frequently, but was normally as elusive to Boromir as his confident mastery in war was to Faramir. “You and Elladan . . . that is what you meant when you told me in the Angle that we were more alike than I first thought.”

“Yes,” Elrohir said, laying a finger on Boromir’s lips, and Boromir had another burst of insight, realizing Elrohir was unconsciously asking him for silence. “We owe you much, Boromir. For it was not until we met that I knew.”

“Knew that you desired . . . Elladan?” Boromir asked, his voice rough; he had trouble getting the words out. He could not say _your brother_. All his life, he had shared with only one person the secret of his desire for Faramir. He could not speak of it without great effort. _Incest._ It was reviled by all the speaking races of Middle-earth. And although he and Faramir could never embody what was most abhorred about incest -- the subjection of the weak and unnatural offspring -- he knew it did not matter; his acts with his brother would be thought as detestable as those of a father who lay with his young daughter.

“No, that I knew well! What I did not know is what it would do to us, if we acted upon it. Elladan and I feared it would destroy us. But you told me -- if I may use that inadequate term -- that it would not. Faramir’s love was a match for yours, so you were both enraptured, exalted by it.”

“You mean you have only recently . . .’

“Since we met you in the Angle, Elladan has become my lover. I learned your only regret was not acting sooner. And while my brother and I may be immortal, our time, I fear, is coming to an end.”

Boromir clutched Elrohir hard, the grim words unexpectedly terrifying him. “Do not say that! We will be victorious!”

“Even if we are, the time of the Elves in Middle-earth is ending. All the more reason for you to spend as much of that time in my arms as possible.” Elrohir grinned, and Boromir could not help grinning back

“But what about Elladan? Is he not upset that I am with you?”

“He has watched me take lovers for two millennia. And he was distracted this evening by a prince of Mirkwood.”

Boromir relaxed, content that Legolas had found solace in the arms of one who would never tell him he was as beautiful as a maiden.

Elrohir added softly, “I do not need to explain to you that I could take hundreds of lovers and it would never denigrate my love for Elladan.”

Boromir stroked Elrohir’s flawless hair and skin. “He is your life.”

“Yes,” Elrohir said. “You know.”

***

He awoke in the antechamber of Elrohir’s room. He had been dressed in his robe, and he was lying on a soft couch with a coverlet over him. The sun had been up for at least two hours. He sat up and discovered he had been washed. Even his hair had been combed. He smiled as he imagined Elrohir gently tending him in his sleep. For a moment, it seemed more intimate than their lovemaking.

Elrohir entered the room. No, it was Elladan. Boromir had had no trouble telling them apart ever since the night in the Angle when Elrohir had briefly touched him with a single finger. Ever after that night, the twins looked at him with something entirely different in their eyes.

Boromir was abruptly uncomfortable. It was one thing for Elrohir to assure him that Elladan was not jealous; but it was quite another to find a man in the bedroom!

He rose quickly from the couch and straightened its coverlets. Elladan caught his arm and Boromir flinched, for it was his injured forearm. Elladan immediately let him go.

“My apologies, Boromir,” Elladan said. He watched Boromir prepare to leave, his gaze making Boromir more and more uncomfortable.

“Boromir, may I speak to you for a moment?” Elladan gestured towards two chairs. Boromir followed him and sat down, his heart starting to pound. He felt Elladan’s mind probe his, and he stood angrily. He was not sure why he found the sensation so repugnant. He sat back down, for he had also sensed Elladan’s need in that brief moment, a desperate wanting.

“Elladan, I regret what I said to you in the Angle. Elrohir told me you accepted my apology. I am sorry.” Boromir said the words rapidly and ungraciously. He assumed Elladan was there to hear his apology in person.

“Boromir, we are not engaged in a contest of grief. We are both motherless. I did not, and do not, bear you any ill will.”

Boromir flushed at his words. _A contest of grief._ That was indeed what he had made of it: when he had learned the great age of the twins, he had felt for a brief and bitter moment the pain of the mortality of men. His grandfather had died when he was five, his mother when he was ten. He had lashed out at the twins, not knowing the disastrous fate of their mother Celebrian. They were indeed as motherless as he.

But how different his life, and Faramir’s life, would have been if their mother had lived! Faramir would not have grown up in the dreadful vacuum of Denethor’s indifference, his only love coming from Boromir. It had affected their lives permanently -- it had twisted them; Boromir knew that when he had the courage to think on it. Their affection for each other had come from it. Affection that had become more than affection.

But he could do nothing about it. She had died, and that was that. If he let himself sink into despair, he would be paralyzed by his fear of Faramir’s death, of the might of Mordor sweeping over his brother. Since he had come to Rivendell, his nightmares of Faramir’s death had ceased. He knew that they waited for him outside the borders of the valley.

“Please, Boromir. I am not angry.”

Elladan was not looking at him coldly any longer, but with suppressed desperation. Boromir thought he knew what Elladan wanted.

“I will not touch Elrohir again,” Boromir muttered. “I give you my word.”

Elladan moved his chair closer, until their knees touched, and seized his hands. “I will not say it does not hurt, Boromir, for it does. But that is not why I came to see you.”

Boromir looked at him, suddenly curious. If it was not about his insult, and not about Elrohir, he had no idea why Elladan had sought him.

“How may I help you?” Boromir said, almost formally.

Elladan looked at him pleadingly, and Boromir was moved. Deep down, Boromir knew he had an almost fatal weakness, which was a desire to protect others. He had had to battle it as the Captain-General of Gondor, for he was responsible for sending men to their deaths. And while Boromir felt no compunction about giving his own life, it caused him great hurt to order others into battle. Seeing Elladan with that expression on his face brought out his protective streak immediately; at that moment he would have done anything for the Peredhil.

“I am asking a great favor of you, Boromir. Elrohir has told me that he saw in your mind that your love for your brother did not cause either of you a hurt.”

Boromir nodded, already uncomfortable. While Elladan and Elrohir’s love for each other did not cause him discomfort, he could not help fearing that another person knew of him and Faramir, even one he could trust absolutely. “Yes. He saw true.”

“But I have not seen it, Boromir. Only Elrohir has looked into your mind.”

Boromir paled. “You want to see for yourself.”

“I was afraid you would find it disagreeable,” Elladan muttered. “I have felt your reaction each time I tried to read your thoughts, so I have always halted my attempts. You do not have to do this.” He could not hide his bitter disappointment.

“I will let you,” Boromir said. He guessed that Elladan could look without his permission, and was grateful that he had asked instead, but he could not hide his fear. Elladan squeezed his hand.

“You must relax,” Elladan whispered. “Lie down. Let me touch you. It will be swifter.”

Boromir nodded, thinking of Elrohir’s thoughts bursting into his mind while they made love. He had wondered if the force of it had been due to their touching each other. Before, when the Elves had touched his mind, he had heard only speech or wordless thoughts. No feelings or images or smells or tastes . . .

He moved to the couch in the antechamber, but Elladan shook his head. It was too small to hold the both of him. Boromir lay on the bed on his back, his hands on his breast, his body stiff. Elladan removed his shoes and lay next to him, turning on his side. Gently, he stroked Boromir’s face and hair, and after a few minutes, Boromir relaxed. If Elladan kept it up, he would be asleep soon.

_Do you wish to sleep?_

_Yes._ He realized they were speaking without words, and he tensed.

_Do not fear this, Boromir._

_What must I do?_

_Think of Faramir. That is all._

Boromir’s mind immediately went to the last time he had seen his brother, in the Ithilien refuge of Henneth-Annun, where they had made love for the first time, and, he feared, the last. Elladan’s presence in his mind stayed remote and he relaxed further.

He thought of the moment he had finally kissed Faramir as a lover, and he heard Elladan sigh next to him. Slowly an image came to him, of a kiss between the twins. They were in a forest, possibly in the Angle. Boromir could see the campfire and smell the smoke. Elladan and Elrohir sat side by side at the fire, then turned to each other at the same instant. Their kiss was gentle for mere moments, and then they were tearing at their clothes. He could feel their overwhelming passion, and he thought of Faramir, of how he had stripped his clothes off his brother with the same violence.

He saw Elrohir had been dominant at first, thrusting into his brother with the barest of preliminaries, just as Boromir had taken Faramir. The images lost their clarity, blurring and blending. He saw Elrohir kiss Faramir, his brother yielding to the Peredhil with the same urgency he had yielded to Boromir. Elladan was below Boromir, his fingers digging into Boromir’s back. Elladan’s face shifted to Faramir’s and back again . . .

Boromir was lost; there was no longer a separation between his mind and Elladan’s. Every touch and caress Faramir had given him over the years flowed over his skin; he could feel Elladan’s pleasure when Elrohir stroked him. Pleasure. Love. They intensified each other. The twins’ love for each other was as great as that he bore for Faramir. He could feel joy in Elladan as he perceived Boromir’s love for Faramir, and Boromir was inflamed by Elladan’s passion for Elrohir. He kissed Elladan hungrily, the hard body under him twisting to merge with him.

“Boromir!”

It took him a long moment to understand that his name had been spoken aloud. He opened his eyes to see Elladan below him, his lips swollen with kisses, his robe open in front, as was Boromir’s. Legolas stood at the door.

The Elf shimmered with rage, and in his alert stance there was a threat of violence. Elladan pulled himself out from under Boromir and closed his robe. “Legolas! Please listen!”

A cold smile appeared on Legolas’s face. “You can explain.”

“Yes,” Elladan said, but he immediately hung his head, overcome with shame.

“It is my fault, Legolas,” Boromir said, his eyes straying to Legolas’s hands, which were resting on his knife belt. There were loud steps in the hall, someone running, and Elrohir entered the room. He took in the situation at a glance; he must have known what Elladan was going to request of Boromir, for there was no surprise in his face. He turned to Legolas.

“Legolas. We must talk. Elladan and I have something to tell you.” Elrohir’s voice was calm, but Boromir could see that Elrohir’s hands had strayed to his belt as well. Boromir’s throat closed as he imagined violence breaking out between the two Peredhil and Legolas, their skillfully lethal hands raised to harm.

“No!” Elladan shouted at Elrohir.

Turning his back on Legolas, Elrohir went to his brother and embraced him. “We must tell him. We cannot escape his judgment.”

Boromir put a hand over his face, momentarily overcome. He looked up to see Legolas was alarmed at the depth of feeling in the twins, their horror of the situation. Legolas’s hands left his belt.

“Let me talk,” Boromir croaked. Tears had started in his eyes, and he saw them on Elladan’s face as well. “Legolas, will you sit down?”

Moving stiffly, Legolas sat in a chair by the window, his gaze fastened on Elladan.

“You remember the day, Legolas, when I looked at you with . . . desire, do you not?”

Legolas nodded, obviously mystified by the turn the conversation had taken, for what had it to do with what was happening at that moment? Boromir could see all of these thoughts cross the Elf’s face, and he almost smiled. “I thought you were my brother. That is who I mistook you for.’

Boromir could see the moment when Legolas was repulsed; his body stiffened, and his eyes left Boromir’s face. But there was no point in softening the blow. “My brother and I love each other, as lovers do, Legolas. We have since we were young men. We did not act on it, until I left for Rivendell.” Legolas looked at anything but Boromir’s face. “I do not regret it,” Boromir said firmly. “When you came into the room, I was allowing Elladan to look into my mind, to feel what I feel for Faramir. You can guess why, can’t you?”

Legolas hesitated, then nodded. With an effort, he looked into Boromir’s eyes.

“You have explained . . . sufficiently.” Legolas said. His face was cold and stern.

“What will you do, Legolas?” Elrohir asked. He was sitting on the bed, Elladan beside him. Elladan’s face was tear-stained, but he was still, withdrawn. Boromir had seen Faramir in the same state when Denethor had wounded him too deeply, and he had a sudden urge to strike Legolas.

“I will do nothing,” Legolas said. His coldness vanished for a moment, his rage flooding his face. “I have learned that Elladan does not care for me, and that Boromir is not the friend I thought. And that you, Elrohir, are . . . I can do nothing to you that is worse than what you have done to yourselves.”

“Legolas,” Boromir said with an effort. “Elladan did not mean to hurt you. I did not mean to . . .”

“I have heard enough, Boromir,” Legolas said. He left the room swiftly. Boromir immediately went to Elladan to wrap his arms around him. He and Elrohir held Elladan between them until his body relaxed, and he laid his head on Elrohir’s shoulder.

Boromir’s part in the Fellowship was doomed, he realized. Either he or Legolas would have to withdraw from the quest, for how could they travel together as comrades on that dangerous road with this between them? And yet Boromir could not abandon the Fellowship, for that way lay home. And Faramir.

***

The next morning, he learned from Aragorn that they would be leaving soon, possibly the next day at dusk. “The last of the scouts have returned today. We know that the Nazgul have vanished from the North, so our path is clear before us.’ Boromir nodded, avoiding Aragorn’s concerned gaze. He knew he looked poorly, for he had barely slept.

He planned to speak to Elrond that afternoon to tell him that he could not in good conscience be part of the Fellowship. He could not think of a reason to give, but he would come up with something.

He must tell Legolas beforehand, yet he dreaded doing so. At last, after eating breakfast, he went to the remote courtyard where he and Legolas had practiced every day without fail for weeks. It was ten in the morning, the time they usually began.

He had been there only a moment when he heard Legolas approach. The Mirkwood prince was not wearing his knives, or carrying his bow and quiver. His coldness and anger were gone, his face marked with grief.

“Boromir. I will withdraw from the Fellowship if you wish,” Legolas said. His voice was firm.

“No. I will. You will depart tomorrow evening. I will speak to Elrond tonight and ask him to chose a member of his household to take my place.”

“Boromir, no! You must go South to Minas Tirith. Aragorn will need you. If he is to take the throne, he cannot do it without you.”

Boromir clenched his jaw. He knew Legolas was right, but he also knew he was not fit to be a member of the Fellowship. He would never forget the look of disgust on Legolas’s face. “And what reason will you give to Elrond?” Boromir asked. “Elrond will have no trouble believing I do not wish to travel with the Ringbearer, for he knows I objected to destroying the ring.” _And I still object, for I fear it means the death of us all._

He could see Legolas waver, and pressed home his advantage. “He will question you at length to know your mind. Could you conceal from him what has happened?”

“Boromir, there is another choice. We shall both go.” Legolas looked at him steadily, and took a step forward.

Boromir shook his head. “You no longer trust me.”

“I do, Boromir. You have not failed my trust. Elladan made an error in asking to see into your mind -- have you not noticed that I have never done so with you? -- for it is dangerous for our kind to do so with mortals. You did not know what would happen. Indeed, I believe you were not aware of . . . what you were doing until I was there.”

“You are correct,” Boromir said quietly.

Legolas smiled, and the smile chilled him. “But Elladan knew.”

“He only wished to know that his love for Elrohir would not destroy them both, and he thought to see the answer in my mind, as Elrohir had done.”

“Did he find what he sought?”

“I believe so,” Boromir said. Legolas regarded him for a long moment, then came close, putting his hands on Boromir’s shoulders. A brotherly gesture. Boromir shivered.

“Can you truly say, Boromir, that your love of Faramir is not destroying you?” Legolas said softly. “You have no wife, no child. I see your grief. You both desire and dread that he will find another to love. For you know he must leave you behind to find happiness.”

“It does not matter,” Boromir said thickly, not sure what he meant by “it.” Himself?

“It does not matter to Elladan and Elrohir; that is true. For five hundred years, they have been together in the wild, and they will be five hundred years hence. There is no place for another in their lives. I was merely a diversion for Elladan; I have accepted that.”

Boromir could not stop tears from flooding his eyes when Legolas gently touched his face.

“I have no distrust of you,” Legolas said softly. “You are a valiant man, and we need you on this road. We shall put this behind us.”

Boromir laughed through his tears. “For one who has not read my thoughts, how is it that you know everything?”

“It was all on your face, the day you looked at me. There was lust in your expression, but also love. Hope. Fear. And grief. All in that one brief glance. It was easy to understand, once you told me who you intended that look for.”

“You never told me your intentions,” Boromir said. Relief filled him; he was overjoyed that neither he nor Legolas would turn back from the quest. “Was I another besotted man you were leading to the slaughter? Or was I to be an exception?”

Legolas grinned. “I think you know the answer to that.” He darted away swiftly through the trees.

Boromir laughed; he did not know the answer, but he knew he had a friend.

***

The End

Mucho gratitude to RiverOtter, a Beta Reader of special munificence.

Revised 12/29/2003


	3. Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After traveling through the Angle, Boromir arrives in Rivendell and meets Aragorn, Legolas . . . and the Ring.

Smut with Footnotes TM

This story sits at the number four position in my accidental Boromir and Faramir WIP, which I guess one of these years I’ll call the Shining One Arc. I plan more additions, for it seems I will follow Boromir to Amon Hen, though I really don’t want to go there [insert weeping icon here].

Shining One  
Riderless  
Roads Forgotten  
The Free Lords of the Free  
Dreams Of Hope  
Twenty Years Wiser

Man-high  
Man-high is a genuine Tolkien measurement, and does mean six feet, four inches tall. It is well known that the kings of Numenor were tall critters. It appears that Elendil, of the line of Numenor, was seven feet tall! Egad. The twins are shorter: I’m guessing they are 6’ 6”, as 6’4” would have been considered nothing remarkable. Luckily, they do not have to buy their clothes off the rack. Their height is hinted at by Tolkien, who refers to them as mighty among both Elves and Men, which suggests they are more than man high. Based on Tolkien’s text, I have always assumed that Boromir is 6’ and Aragorn 6’ 1”.

* _“You may cut my hand, but I shall take your life.”_  
This saying is not Elvish; it comes from the martial arts of the Philippines. Which kick ass, by the way. Taken from Filipino escrima, in which the hand is used as a shield, and is sacrificed, if necessary. But isn’t it easy to imagine movie verse Legolas saying it with a demonic grin? As soon as I came across this saying, the whole sparring scene fell into place.

Hands Against The Knife  
Taken from aikido, the martial art from Japan.

Boromir’s collar  
 _“He had a collar of silver in which a single white stone was set; his locks were shorn about his shoulders.”_  
Of Boromir, Book 2, Ch 2, _The Council of Elrond_ , FoTR, LOTR

Dang, I wish we could have seen Boromir wearing that in the film -- but the high necked costumes made it impossible.

When did Boromir get to Rivendell?  
One of those JRRT contradictions: in the appendix for the Great Years, Boromir arrives at Rivendell the night of October 24th, and the council is October 25th. However, in the text, Gandalf says on the 25th that Boromir arrived that day, in the “grey morning.” I’m going with Gandalf.

Another date that is a bit uncertain is the date Elladan and Elrohir return to Rivendell from Lothlorien, though it is clearly near the date of the Fellowship’s departure.

Reverse grip and other goodies:  
Grateful acknowledgement to The Man who gave me tips on knife fighting, even though I put the information to such shocking use. It’s just amazing, the stuff he knows. All errors are my own, for the smut and the plot were more important to me than martial arts accuracy.

I was helped greatly by the Elladan and Elrohir bio prepared by Tyellas:

http://www.ansereg.com/elladan_and_elrohir_factsheet.htm

In gratitude, I adopted the lovely chestnut hair.

**Timeline for Stewardess Fics**

**All dates Third Age**

I have assigned specific months to some events where only the year is known. Factual dates are in bold; dates I made up are not.

**2976 : Denethor and Finduilas marry**  
 **March 2978 : Boromir born**  
2980 : Theodred born?  
 **February 2983 : Faramir born**  
 **2984 : Denethor becomes Steward**  
 **2988 : Finduilas dies**  
March 2992: Boromir receives Vingilot  
December 2992: Boromir sees Galdor and Wulf in barracks  
January 2993: Story starts  
January 2993: Boromir is warned in armoury  
 **March 2994: Boromir turns 16**  
Late May 2994: Boromir meets Mardil in Anorien  
July 2994: Boromir returns to M.T. first time  
2995 : Boromir leaves to the South  
2995 : Boromir returns to M.T. second time  
2996 : Boromir leaves to Ithilien  
January 2997 : Boromir returns to Minas Tirith  
2997 : Mardil buys home in Pelennor  
2997 : Galdor and Wulf  
2997 : Spies reported in Osgiliath  
2997 : Iorlas warns Boromir  
2997 : Mardil injured, Wulf killed  
2998 : Mardil leaves to Rohan six months later  
2998 : Iorlas reveals Mardil secret  
September 2998 : Faramir ill  
September 2998 : Mardil returns from Rohan in secret  
September 2998 : Boromir 10 month journey to South Gondor  
 **February 2999 : Faramir turns 16**  
April 2999 : Faramir meets Mardil  
June 2999 : Boromir returns from South Gondor  
July 2999 : Faramir leaves on journey  
3001 : Iorlas and Galdor meet  
3002 : Mardil is killed  
3002 : Galdor sees Boromir in Cair Andros  
3003 : Boromir Captain of the White Tower  
June 3006 : Faramir Captain of Ithilien -- I borrowed this date from Altariel’s lovely story “Proof.”  
3009: Galdor and Iorlas quarrel; Bergil is born  
3010: Vingilot dies  
 **June 3018 : Sauron attacks Osgiliath**  
June 28 3018 : Boromir visits Faramir in Henneth Annun  
 **July 4 3018 : Boromir leaves to Imladris**  
August 10 3018 Boromir leaves Tharbad  
August 24 3018 Reaches Loudwater/Hoarwell split  
September 1 3018 Arrives in village in the Angle.  
September 8 3018 Lalaith  
October 1 3018 Twins’ warning  
October 5 3018 Boromir leaves Angle to go to Rivendell  
October 24 3018 Twins arrive in Rivendell, meet with Aragorn; they leave Rivendell that night to go to Lothlorien  
 **October 25 3018 Boromir arrives in Rivendell in the early morning**  
 **October 25 3018 Council of Elrond**  
November 9 3018 Misunderstanding with Legolas  
December 22 3018 Twins return in the morning and meet with Elrond only  
December 23 3018 Sparring practice  
December 24 3018 Boromir and Legolas talk  
 **December 25 3018 Fellowship leaves Rivendell at dusk**  
 **February 26 3019 : Boromir dies on Amon Hen**  
 **February 29 3019 : Faramir’s vision of Boromir in Elven Boat**  
 **March 1 3019 : Faramir leaves Minas Tirith to Ithilien**  
 **March 7 3019 : Frodo and Sam meet Faramir**  
 **March 9 3019 : Faramir leaves Henneth Annun**  
 **March 10 3019 : Faramir arrives in Minas Tirith, speaks with Pippin, Gandalf, and Denethor**  
March 10 3019: Faramir meets Iorlas and Galdor  
 **March 11 3019 : Denethor sends Faramir to Osgiliath**  
 **March 13 3019: Faramir is wounded and falls into a fever**

Thanks for reading.

http://www.livejournal.com/users/stewardess_lotr/


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